(aka, the poem in which I lose my damn temper)
I am done with men fucking up after everything I say,
and going ahead with it anyway and then being so fucking surprised:
“I'm surprised! Are you surprised? I was so fucking surprised!”
Oh, you're his friend, are you?
No, I don't know where he went.
Maybe he's down at the store having spent,
his last silver dime on buying back the time he wasted;
or a balm for the consequences he wrought;
or a sense of responsibility; or... I dunno, some fucking shame.
Who knows? Maybe he's dead.
Is it my problem? Stop asking.
Is there something you'd rather have me do instead?
Like, sweety, I'd love to go headhunting with you,
but that boy's gotta make his bed some day.
So, I'm sorry, not my problem, he knew the rules, he knew the cost.
He came in guns blazing; to hell with the consequences,
and got his ass knocked two feet sideways from Tuesday.
Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
If you're through, are we done please?
I'm not particularly busy today, but this is not what I had planned,
but if you're laying claim to that trash,
I can offer you a broom and the door.